


A Trio Tested (Or Uncovering a Police Spy)

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Les Mis Reverse Bang. Based on oilan's wonderful art! Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac meet in the Luexmbourg Gardens when Enjolras suspects a police spy within the wider ranks of their society, and Combeferre receives a cryptic note telling the Amis to avoid the Corinthe and the Musain for a week. Once they realize who the culprit is, they set out to confront him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trio Tested (Or Uncovering a Police Spy)

**April, 1829**

“Not that I don’t enjoy a good walk around Luxembourg Gardens,” Courfeyrac says from his place on the bench next to Enjolras. “But it is not normally you who wishes to walk in the gardens; that is more Marius’ particular activity. And besides that, we are not even walking. We are sitting nearly behind a tree in the furthest corner. Why are we doing that?”

“We are waiting on Combeferre,” Enjolras says, not looking at Courfeyrac, his eyes focused forward as if searching for something. They are narrowed slightly, his hands grasping the wood of the bench as he sits forward.

“And he knows to meet us all the way back in this corner?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer.

Courfeyrac frowns, impatient, but also concerned. It is not unusual for Enjolras to be so deep in thought that he doesn’t hear, and more than once Courfeyrac has said his name at least twice before gaining his attention. But he sees the way his friend’s hands clench the edge of the bench, so tight all the blood flows to the tips of his fingers, leaving his knuckles white.

“Enjolras, what are you keeping from me?”

Still no answer. Sensing that for some reason he’s supposed to be quiet, instead of shouting Enjolras’ name, Courfeyrac flicks his arm, and finally he turns around

“Why did you flick my arm?” Enjolras asks, eyebrows knitted together and his expression so bewildered that Courfeyrac nearly laughs.

“I asked you two questions and you didn’t answer,” Courfeyrac replies. “You do not generally ignore me, and if you do, you make a show of doing so. Saying things like ‘I’m not listening to you, Courfeyrac’ or sighing at me while trying not to smile, a habit undoubtedly learned from Combeferre, or…”

Enjolras holds up a hand, and he is in fact, smiling.

“I am rather aware of the routine of our friendship,” Enjolras says. “My apologies for not hearing you. I am rather distracted.”

“More like intensely focused so that you literally do not hear one of you dear friends speaking to you,” Courfeyrac argues. Enjolras’ smile fades, and Courfeyrac feels worry knot in his stomach. “Enjolras,” he says, putting hand on his friend’s arm. “What’s the matter?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, but they both turn at the sound of Combeferre’s voice, standing up to greet him.

“There you are,” he says in a rather loud whisper, approaching them. He’s been running, Courfeyrac surmises, small beads of sweat lining his forehead, his glasses perched lopsidedly on his nose. “My professor kept me a bit with talking about an essay and I couldn’t quite get away, or I’d have been here earlier. But it was rather interesting, I admit. About some new research on fever reduction. Oh!” He stops as if he’s just remembered something, reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Enjolras. “I found this under the door of my rooms this morning, which, well it’s a bit unnerving, honestly, how does this person know where I live, but also immensely useful, if it’s true. Perhaps this had something to do with why you wanted to meet, Enjolras?”

Enjolras looks down at the paper, holding it to the side so Courfeyrac can read also.

_Avoid the Corinthe for the next week. There is a traitor among you. To be safe, avoid the Musain as well._

“You believe there is a traitor among us, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, frowning deeply now, uncomfortable at the thought of someone infiltrating their inner ranks. “Surely not…not one of the nine of us, you couldn’t…”

“No,” Enjolras says, grasping Courfeyrac’s hand, reassuring him. “No, of course not. Someone in our larger group. I have suspected for a few days now that we might have a police spy amongst us. Or someone who is reporting to the police.”

“And this…rather cryptic letter is someone warning us,” Combeferre says, taking the letter back and looking at it once again. “Perhaps there’s going to be a raid. The two pieces fit.”

“Only we don’t know who the spy is,” Courfeyrac muses. “Or who would want to warn us without simply telling us.”

“Did you have any thoughts on who the spy might be, Enjolras?” Combeferre asks.

“I might,” Enjolras answers. “He turns toward Courfeyrac. “Do you know that fellow Fabron? He comes sometimes to the meetings sits quietly in the corner? He’s in the class we have to together that you scarcely attend.”

Courfeyrac holds up his hands, grinning. “You caught me. But yes, I think so. Grumpy looking fellow?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “He scarcely says a word in class or at the meetings.”

“What made you notice him?” Combeferre asks, turning his head slightly when a couple passes them by, strolling through the gardens.

“Well, the fact that he scarcely speaks, for one. But he seemed to know my leanings, asked me about societies I knew of. Didn’t think a great deal of it, I’ve been asked that previously. I thought it odd he never really socialized with anyone, but left abruptly after the meetings were through, but some people do not like to linger, I suppose? It wasn’t enough, at first, to make me concerned. I had no solid evidence.”

“And then?” Courfeyrac asks, hanging onto Enjolras’ words, thinking this sounds a bit like a detective novel he’s read before.

“I spotted him outside the Corinthe two evenings ago when I was early. He was writing in a notebook and closed it rather swiftly when I approached. Started speaking to me about class. He looked nervous the whole evening after. And now we have this warning.” Enjolras twists his fingers in silence, a sure sign anxiety. “Though I admit, I haven’t the faintest idea where the warning might have come from.”

“A republican sympathizer within the police, perhaps?” Combeferre ponders, dropping his voice, reaching over and gently squeezing Enjolras’ hands until he ceases his nervous movement. Enjolras grasps Combeferre’s hand a moment before he lets go, a quiet thanks.

“It’s not unheard of,” Courfeyrac adds “Feuilly introduced us to that former officer just a few months ago who comes sometimes.”

Enjolras nods, and Courfeyrac sees that faraway look in his eyes as they narrow in thought.

“Do we simply avoid the cafes as the letter instructs, then?” Combeferre asks, surveying Enjolras a moment before his eyes flicker up to meet Courfeyrac’s.

“No,” Enjolras says. “Normally I might suggest it, perhaps if we’d just received the warning letter. But if we truly have a spy among us it must dealt with. There’s too much danger involved and I don’t want anyone getting arrested if it can be prevented, and would rather not have our work interrupted.”

“Dealt with?” Combeferre asks, raising both eyebrows.

Enjolras nods again. “I think confronting him is best. Carefully.”

“We could call off the meeting for tomorrow,” Courfeyrac suggests. “But we won’t alert him of it. And if he’s standing there with the notebook again it will give us a clue.”

“He very well might give himself away,” Combeferre says, smiling at Courfeyrac. “Good thought. Perhaps you should be the first one to speak to him, Enjolras?”

“Why’s that?” Enjolras asks, and Courfeyrac cannot help but laugh at the genuine curiosity in his friend’s voice. “What?” he asks, bewildered as he looks at Courfeyrac.

“Because you are very obviously the most intimidating among us,” Courfeyrac says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows, a smile quirking at his lips. “I would have thought that prize went to Bahorel.”

“It’s a close contest,” Combeferre admits. “He is broad, and noticeably strong. But you are tall, and have…an aura.”

“An aura.”

“Charming and warm on a normal day. Reserved but undoubtedly affectionate to those close to you. A bit like a very sunny winter’s morning,” Courfeyrac says, teasing. “Intimidating and a bit terrifying when acting in defense of your friends or our cause. In this case, a bit of both. You are intense and intelligent, always. I fear for the man, honestly.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, swatting at him lightly and rolling his eyes with affection. “Well if I am so intimidating, perhaps I shall ask to borrow Joly’s cane.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac gaze at him a moment, confused.

“In case he attempts to harm any of us,” Enjolras explains. “Bahorel has taught me canne de combat, it’s appropriate for self-defense. If he truly is a police spy, well. There’s not really any way to know what he’ll do. And if carry along the one I use for training with Bahorel he will know something is wrong immediately, they do have markings. But Joly’s cane is light enough, I should think.”

Silence falls for a moment, the teasing of moments ago faded as the gravity of the situation descends upon them again.

“What do you think his motivation is?” Courfeyrac asks. “What could he have to gain from doing this? Sheer joy that he stopped a group of republicans?”

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras says. “He doesn’t seem particularly principled.”

“Someone could be paying him,” Combeferre says, removing his spectacles and running his fingers back and forth over his eyes as if a headache is oncoming. “Or perhaps he is just an ardent monarchist. I am curious as to the why myself, though maybe we will surmise from speaking to him.”

“But why would he choose us?” Enjolras questions. “We are a solid group, but small. Not even close to the largest.”

“Convenience, maybe?” Courfeyrac says. “Or the officer he’s reporting to believes we can link him to other groups? We are very well connected, thanks to Bahorel and your efforts to have us all visit other student cafes and workers groups, Enjolras.” He stops a moment, a thought occurring to him. “Might I ask why we could not meet in one of our rooms about this?”

“I was a bit worried he might know where some of us live,” Enjolras says

“You think it goes that deeply?” Combeferre asks.

“Probably not,” Enjolras says, flicking something off the sleeve of his blue coat. “But I wanted to be sure. This seemed the best place.”

“What are we going to use as the excuse for cancelling the meeting?” Combeferre asks.

“Well, I was going to tell Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Provaire, Feuilly, and Grantaire the truth. As for the other members, I suppose we could simply tell them all three of us are ill, or something like that.”

“Well you would have to be _very_ ill to miss an official meeting,” Combeferre teases. “Stubborn as you are.”

“You are no better,” Enjolras shoots back, pointing his finger at Combeferre. “You only fool people into believing you are.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac has the sense that he is riling Enjolras up on purpose to distract him from the situation at hand. “How many times have I found you at a meeting when you most certainly should have been in bed?”

“Joly has said previously that you are often worse,” Enjolras argues. “You will not even admit to being ill in the first place, or you don’t notice, if you’re particularly fixated on something.”

Combeferre opens his mouth to reply but Courfeyrac interrupts.

“Boys,” he chides, fond. “What do you say to continuing this conversation over dinner? Talk of turncoats among us has done a great deal for my appetite. We can discuss our strategy for making the wretch tell us the truth. And decide which of you is more stubborn. At least I have good sense to stay in bed when I’m ill, and do not protest if my friends happen to take pity and fawn over me.”

This draws a laugh from both Enjolras and Combeferre, and Courfeyrac feels some of his worry ebb. Combeferre links his arm through Enjolras’, and Enjolras links his through Courfeyrac’s.

They can do this, Courfeyrac thinks. Perhaps this is new, but it is everything they’ve prepared for.

* * *

The sun sets behind Paris while Enjolras waits patiently a small distance from the Corinthe, watching. He feels the tension resting in his shoulders and up the back of his neck, relaxing his stance for a moment so he might relieve it a bit. He feels the warmth of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s bodies just behind him, reassured. They will catch this spy, and they will protect their cause and their society. They will protect each other.

“Do you see him yet?” Courfeyrac asks in a whisper that is somehow louder than it should be.

“Not yet,” Enjolras replies, looking behind him a moment. “Keep your voice down just a bit, please?”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, grasping Enjolras’ shoulder a moment. “Apologies. I am a bit new to this. Yet somehow you are a natural. Tell me my friend, have you been ridding us of police spies this entire time and yet you are only 23? Were there suggestions I missed buried somewhere in the Rousseau and Marat volumes? Somewhere in the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen?”

“Hardly,” Enjolras says with a very soft chuckle.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, fond. “Do promise me you will not ever try to be a spy.”

“Noted,” Courfeyrac says. “Or perhaps I should simply work on my whispering skills.”

Enjolras smiles, but then Fabron appears in his line of vision, going, as he expected, to stand in front of the door of the Corinthe, notebook in hand. He opens it, waiting for something.

“There he is,” Enjolras says. “He has the notebook. I’m going, don’t forget the signal.”

With that he walks out of the alley, Joly’s cane in hand. He’s nearly to Fabron’s spot before the man looks up, and when he does anxiety lines his face, though he tries hiding it by rearranging his face into the semblance of a grin, and it wears strangely on his face.

“Enjolras,” he says, closing his notebook with a snap. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” Enjolras says, words easy and calm, but they are teetering on the edge of something, and Fabron must sense it given how he stiffens at the very slight sound of steel in Enjolras’ voice, at the knowledge that Enjolras came here for a purpose.

Fabron’s eyes fall on the cane. “Do you…usually carry a cane?”

“No,” Enjolras says simply.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, eyes darting about for signs of an injury.

“No,” Enjolras says again, eyes boring into Fabron’s, seeing sweat gathering at the edge of his hairline. He wishes the man would simply come clean, but somehow he doubts Fabron will make it that easy. Nothing about anything involving their work has been easy, and he doesn’t imagine that will ever change.

There’s a tense, utterly silent moment as Enjolras stares Fabron down and Fabron looks back, unable to keep Enjolras’ gaze, which is intense enough that were it possible, it might burn through his clothing for all the fire it contains, yet his words emerge like ice.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Fabron?”

Another moment. Silence. Tension radiating in layers all around them.

Then, Fabron runs.

Enjolras taps his cane on the ground and Combeferre and Courfeyrac emerge, blocking Fabron’s way out.

“Not so fast,” Courfeyrac says, seizing his sleeve, and Fabron backs up while still in his hold, taking one quick glance up at Combeferre’s frowning, angry expression, and Enjolras briefly thinks that he’d hate to be on the receiving end of Combeferre’s crushing disappointment. Given the frightened gleam in Fabron’s eyes, he feels the same.  

“You will let me out of here,” he insists, yanking out of Courfeyrac’s grasp and turning around only to find Enjolras still blocking the other way out.

“I don’t think we will, actually,” Combeferre says, cold as he holds out the warning he’d received and handing it to Fabron, who takes it, doing a terrible job of feigning ignorance.

“Is there any reason Combeferre might have received this under his door?” Enjolras asks, slow. “Something you might know about?”

“No,” Fabron snaps, defensive. “You are crossing a line, Enjolras. I will file charges if you touch me. If any of you touch me.”

“We do not have any plans to harm you unless you attempt to do so first,” Enjolras replies. “I’ve seen that knife you carry around.”

“For self-defense,” Fabron argues. “Against the riff-raff of this city. And apparently against my own acquaintances.”

Enjolras feels anger burn in the pit of his stomach at the phrase _riff-raff_. He is obviously the last person opposed to learning self-defense or fighting tactics for protection and offense, when needed, but the way Fabron spits the word makes it clear who he means. He should have known this was happening earlier, should have known by the way Fabron mostly avoided sitting near any of the workers who came to their meetings, the way he’d looked at Feuilly almost with disdain. Feuilly, who was a better man that Fabron could ever dream of being. But, he supposes, one cannot confront a person based on a glance or what might have been only a perceived behavior.

“Yes well, I wasn’t going to take any chances when I thought you might be out to harm us,” Enjolras says.

Fabron laughs, and the sound of it chills Enjolras’ blood for the cruelty running through it

“I don’t suppose you even know how to use that cane other than brute force, do you? Not that you’d have much of _that_ in the first place,” he says, running his eyes up and down Enjolras’ form in a fashion that makes embarrassment he doesn’t summon flare in the pit of his stomach even if he knows that’s exactly what Fabron wants. It wouldn’t be the first time someone underestimated his physical capabilities because of his appearance. “You are all words and no substance, I suspect. Weak.”

At this, Enjolras hears Courfeyrac step up, and before Enjolras or Combeferre can stop him he takes a fist of Fabron’s lapels in his hands, their faces coming almost nose to nose, fury radiating off him in waves.

“Let go of me, you idiot,” Fabron mutters, but he cannot pull loose.

“Enjolras could knock your feet out from under you in five seconds flat,” Courfeyrac says, giving Fabron’s shirt a rough tug. “But if you call him weak again, I will do it for him.”

Enjolras lays a careful hand on Courfeyrac’s arm and after a moment his friend looks over, his expression lined with anger, but he steps back just a fraction at the touch, indicating Enjolras’ appreciation. Fabron’s gaze is focused on Enjolras now, so Combeferre takes Courfeyracs wrist for a second, squeezing lightly until Enjolras hears Courfeyrac’s enraged breathing slow behind him.

“I will not give into your bait,” Enjolras finally says. “Now. You might as well be honest with us, Fabron. We’ve found you out.”

“Such excellent detective work,” Fabron says, sarcasm wrapped around his words. “Everything is a game to you isn’t it?”

“I assure you,” Enjolras says, leaning closer and hearing the danger in his own voice. “None of this is a game.”

There is a moment, a pause, a breath and Enjolras tenses, waiting. Fabron steps, attempting escape once more, and this time Enjolras has no choice. He catches Fabron and presses him lightly against the wall with Joly’s cane, feet planted firm into the dirt.

“Not everyone is as wealthy as your father, Enjolras,” Fabron says, but he doesn’t try escaping again. “Some of us have to work for our money.”

Enjolras finds he desperately wants to throw this wretched man against the wall, but resists. It won’t help them, and he will not tarnish what they’re doing by giving into his rage.

“You have never truly worked a day in your life,” Enjolras says. “Yet you would set out to thwart those who work themselves to the bone and still struggle to put food on their table. You would set out to thwart those people and those who ally with them, to pay homage to a king and stifle the voice of the people, you would…”

“Oh, you are no better than any bourgeois revolutionary that has come before you,” Fabron interrupts, rolling his eyes. “You will get what you are after and then leave those you claim you want to help the most in the dust and the dirt and the rot, just as they were before. Your precious republic is built on nothing but sand, or do you have selective historical memory?”

Enjolras’ hands grip the cane tighter, and he presses Fabron against the wall a bit harder as he struggles once more.

“You have not listened to a word we’ve spoken or read a word we’ve written if you believe we would abandon our core principles,” Combeferre says, voice low, a sure sign of building anger.

“Words are nothing but,” Fabron says.

Enjolras does not say that they’ve begun collecting and hiding cartridges in the event of a barricade. That information was for a very few only, and Fabron hadn’t been privy to it. Though perhaps that was why he was spying in the first place. Perhaps Charles and his government grew nervous as they sensed the desperation and the rage building on itself throughout the city. The inevitable fire that was coming.

 “And you would take money over everything?” Enjolras questions. “What kind of man does that make you, exactly?”

Fabron leans in closer, an obnoxious, somehow sinister grin curling at his lips. “Better than a man who so loves the rabble.”

Enjolras’ fists curl tighter around the cane. Fabron is trying to get a rise out of him and he won’t give in. “Loving the people, loving this country is not an insult. But they are _not_ a rabble. I do not take kindly to traitors coming into the midst of my friends and our work and betraying our trust.”

“Well perhaps you shouldn’t be so naïve as to trust, Enjolras. It won’t do anything but get you in trouble,” Fabron answers, but there the fear reverberates in his voice now. Before Enjolras can move, Fabron swings, his fist making contact with Enjolras’ cheek. There’s pain, but Enjolras thinks fast, stepping back just slightly, swinging Joly’s cane forward and knocking Fabron’s feet out from under him as he falls to the ground with a rather loud thunk. He stands over Fabron, feet planted on either side of him as Combeferre seizes the notebook that’s fallen from his hand.

Enjolras glares down at Fabron, alarm lining the other man’s face as it pales considerably, obviously regretting his words about Enjolras’ capabilities from earlier. He hears Combeferre and Courfeyrac paging through the notebook, and Fabron doesn’t move, all his sass lost at his physical defeat.

“It’s all in here Enjolras,” Combeferre says, his voice the sharp edge of a knife. “The times of our official meetings, where we meet, what we discuss.”

Enjolras breathes out, relieved at least that their deepest secrets they keep only among the most trusted members of their inner circle, of whom Fabron was never a part.

“Is there enough to cause a police raid?” Enjolras asks, eyes locked onto Fabron’s as the glint of panic in the other man’s eyes shines brighter.

“I believe so,” Combeferre says. “It’s not as if they do not look for any reasons to suppress what they believe to be radical thought. Charles might not be popular, but if our word is allowed to spread he will be even less so.”

Enjolras speaks again to Fabron. “Have you shown this to whatever officer you report to?”

“No,” Fabron says, quicker than Enjolras would have thought. “But I’ve reported it verbally. This they were going to use as firm evidence against you more than just my word. Just let me go and I’ll…I’ll take it back. Everything I said.”

“A quick change in tune,” Courfeyrac says, his voice a growl. “But it’s far too late for that.”

“Rip up the notebook,” Enjolras says, and Fabron’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t protest.

“Are you certain?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, finally breaking eye contact with Fabron to look back at his friends. “This way at least, they will not have the physical evidence.”

Combeferre does as asked, and there are the sounds of paper being torn from the spine of the notebook and ripped in half. Enjolras turns back around, facing the spy among them once more. “How much do you know about the officer you report to?”

“His reputation is that he goes by the book, absolutely,” Fabron says, sweating profusely now. “If there is not evidence, Inspector Javert will not follow, determined as he might be. He is bent, it would seem, on being irreproachable. Just…just let me go and I’ll tell him I lost the notebook.”

“And how might we trust your word?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I suppose you can’t,” Fabron says, but the ire is gone from his voice, and it’s clear to Enjolras he simply wants out. There was no conviction here, no true belief, and even though it would have been the opposite of Enjolras’ own, beliefs he despised, he could have at least respected that more than an already well-off young man’s cowardly desire for yet more money with no care for the destruction it would cause. “But you don’t really have a choice.”

Enjolras glowers at him for a moment, then decides. He moves off so that Fabron may stand, but before he can run off into the night, Enjolras seizes the sleeve of his jacket and Fabron freezes, turning his gaze back to Enjolras.

“I already said I would….”

But Enjolras doesn’t let him finish.

“You will never set foot in either the Corinthe or the Musain again,” he begins, his voice hard and leaving no room for argument, though there is no need for him to raise it. “And mark my words, if you attempt to harm any member of Les Amis, you will answer to me for it. You will return to Inspector Javert and you will tell him you lost the notebook. Say that you understand me.”

Fabron nods, pulling back but Enjolras’ grip on his sleeve is too tight. “Yes. Fine. You have my word.”

Enjolras releases him and Fabron runs without another thought into the darkness, and after he turns the corner, disappears out of sight.

Silence falls between the trio for several moments, and Combeferre places the ripped up paper in his pocket, no doubt for the trash somewhere safe just to make certain.

“And you doubted you were the most intimidating among us,” Courfeyrac says with a grin, drawing a smile out of Enjolras and Combeferre both despite the grave circumstance.

“Well he did not seem to fear me as much at first,” Enjolras points out. “He was nervous, I admit…I think it was the three of us together, more than me that caused his scare. You were a bit frightening yourself there for a moment.”

 Combeferre chuckles softly, putting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “His words were a mask. He lost all of his nerve when he attacked you and realized that was a lost battle the moment it began.”

“What will we do if he does not keep his word?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I suspect he will,” Enjolras says. “I believe we struck enough fear into him. But as a precaution we will avoid the Corinthe and the Musain for the week. But at least we have destroyed the evidence and driven him out. That is the key, I think.”

“I believe I’ve heard that inspector’s name before,” Combeferre adds, musing. “Though I’ve never encountered him.”

Enjolras nods. “It rang familiar to me as well. Best that we avoided him then, if his reputation is such.” He reaches up, fingers grazing across his cheek.

“All right, Enjolras?” Combeferre asks. “I couldn’t tell how badly he got you.”

“It’s not very bad,” he says, wincing just a bit as he touches it again, feeling the bruise forming beneath the skin. “Weak swing. Honestly I’m more concerned about having to return Joly his cane while there’s a bruise on my face.”

Laughter bursts out of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, echoing into the quiet bustle of the evening around them.

“What?” Enjolras asks, trying not to smile, but a chuckle escapes him nevertheless.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, slipping his arm through Enjolras’. “Just that moments ago you were fiercely sweeping a man’s feet out from under him with a threat on your breath, and now here you are, afraid of our dear friend’s lecture on getting into brawls.”

“At least you know Bahorel will be inevitably pleased he taught you so well,” Combeferre says, grinning. “Shall we go back to my rooms and throw these pieces in the fire? I don’t suspect sleep will come easy tonight.”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, letting go of Enjolras and spinning on his heel toward the other. “Are you sure we have not switched bodies in some way without knowing it? As far as I recall, you often tease me for my penchant for throwing documents I dislike into the fire.”

“Sometimes one’s friends rubs off on them,” Combeferre says, arching one eyebrow.

“It is true,” Courfeyrac says. “But I am agreed to this plan. Only I suggest we go to Enjolras’ even if it is further. I left one of my hats there the other day and I require it for something.”

“One of your lost hats only temporarily so, then,” Enjolras teases.

Courfeyrac flicks him in the arm as he’d done earlier that day, and they set off into the night, danger behind them, but Enjolras knows for certain it lies inevitably ahead of them. He is still unsettled, but for now he is content to walk between his two dearest friends, the cool evening breeze fresh against his cheek as the warmth of purpose floods his soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
